


Die. Will. You. That. Remember.

by alovelylittlescandal



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Spoilers, Fix-It, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, M/M, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Psychological Trauma, Recovery, Steve Rogers Feels, but seriously this is ninety-nine percent of my bucky feels, despite all the other tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-19 14:25:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1473070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alovelylittlescandal/pseuds/alovelylittlescandal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Is a man simply the sum of his parts? And how can you move forward when most of your pieces are missing? In the aftermath of the events of CA2:WS, Bucky tries to find the man he once was, in order to become the man he wants to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i. DIE.

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after Captain America 2. An introspective look at the construction of identity aka, 'I left the theatre and then proceeded to have bucky feels everywhere'. 
> 
>  
> 
> Title comes from the English translation of 'Momento Mori': 'Remember that you will die.'

i. DIE

They find him in Berlin, drinking _kaffee_ at a table outside a little bakery. He likes Berlin, but not as much as he had liked Paris. _They_ drove him from Paris (underground métro station at midnight, shedding his two dogged pursuers, always at his heels, always baying) and he should resent them for that. One half of the pair is blonde and in charge. The other is dark and mouthy. He had showed his resentment by shooting the mouthy friend in the shoulder. The blond man (name: _blank_ ) had yelled. 

He thinks he should know him. Doesn’t.

Blank. Blank. Blank.

How can you miss something that is not there?

Today, he’s curious about the pair, and he’s stayed in his visible spot to allow them to observe him as much as he observes them. He doesn’t even try to kill them. He calls that nice. A common courtesy. He is relearning how to be nice, now. But they do not approach, like they did in Paris. Perhaps they have learned to keep their distance. Perhaps they have learned how dangerous he can be. 

And he is dangerous. A weapon, a tool. Something to be put in the hands of greater men than him and made to be used. He knows this instinctively about himself, might almost take pride in it, if not for the nausea that wells up when a voice whispers, _no, that’s wrong, that’s not us, that’s not you._ The sick feeling has been coming more and more often, after he dragged the blonde man to the banks of the river. After he stared at the man with his face in the museum display, the man whose cocky smile said he knew exactly who he was. A friend. A war hero. An identity that had never been fractured ( _yet_ ).

He tries out the man’s name on his tongue. He loops the words over a napkin, pressing so hard with the ball point pen that he rips the name into the wood of the table. James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. 

“Who am I?” he says to the blank walls of his hotel room. It sounds plaintive, it sounds weak and he cringes at how lost his own voice sounds. Weapons are not vulnerable. 

He knows what his rightful title is. He is the heir of chaos and blood. 

“I am the Winter Solider,” he says, forcing strength into his voice. But that does not sound right. 

He leaves Berlin in the night. Hops the train south to Munich, then to Zurich. Listens to the rhythmic sound of the wheels across the track. It reminds him of something _bad._ He sits with his head against the window, watching the dark water under the bridge intently. Bridges spell danger. The yawning emptiness just increases the feeling. Cannot rid himself of it. A prophetic instinct. He wants to scream. 

He is moving only to move, to satisfy that base mammalian instinct of flight and fright. He is frightened, yes. A good operative turns the fright into anger, into an emotion that he can control, but he is done being a good operative. He has been done since a man with a blue spangled shield thought to make him remember. The man who was once the mission. He has forgotten what the mission was, only that there was one.

He is frightened of the men he knows are chasing him, of the men who could be chasing him. The Winter Solider still has handlers, even if he has renounced his throne and his title. He does not know what They want, only that They always want him. 

So he pretends that he is not frightened. When he sits, he folds his body into itself, a sparse and economical position. He walks and takes comfort in the robotics of motion. Movement breeds purpose. He ignores that his mind is dark and empty, that a man who has no memories or past is a man disconnected from the present. 

In Zurich, he buys a ticket to Geneva at 2:00 AM at a train kiosk. The platform is empty and dead silent. A cold wind blows train vouchers across the floor. He likes places best when there are no people around. Crowds present risk. Crowds present opportunities for kills. He stands on the edge of the platform, tucking his metal left hand into his jacket pocket to conceal it. He does not remember how to make it flesh and blood again. He does not remember a lot of things. 

A train screeches at the opposite side of the tracks and he glances back on instinct, draws a pistol with his right hand. 

Disembarking are the blonde man and his friend, his arm in a sling. Both are carrying guns. 

“Shit,” the friend mutters. 

He wants to shoot. His trigger finger aches for it. 

_Blank_ holds up his hands. “Hey, Bucky. I just want to talk.”

Bucky might be his name. He still doesn’t reply. His pistol sweeps between _Blank_ and the friend as he steps backwards. A train crows in the distance. 

“Stay where you are,” he snaps.

The blonde man’s voice is calm but firm. “Bucky, we’re not gonna hurt you…”

“Speak for yourself,” the friend says. “I owe him for the shoulder.”

“Sam,” the blonde man says sharply. 

“It coulda been the head,” he says, voice soft. He is telling the truth. It had been the head for hundreds of targets. He was being nice.

“See, Steve? It could have been my head,” Sam says, sarcastic. “You still want to bring him in?”

“He’s my friend,” says Steve. He says it with the kind of fervor and affection that existed on Bucky Barnes’ face in all those museum reels. Like being a friend means something. 

So... _Blank_ has a name and it is Steve. But it rings no bells for him. 

“I don’t have friends,” he says.

Steve’s face crumples a little at the edges. “I know you think that right now…”

“I don’t have friends!” he repeats, raising his voice in a shout. His voice echoes off the high vaulted ceilings. 

The train comes closer. He glances backward at the tracks. 

“I don’t know who you are,” he shouts. “I don’t know who I am. Stop chasing me. _I don’t know anything._ ”

He screams this last part to Sam, who is looking more and more taken aback.

“Hey, man. It’s okay,” Sam says. But his hands are still wrapped around his gun.

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. But you like being called Bucky,” says Steve.

“That’s what the museum said,” he says. 

“What museum?” Steve says, confused.

“The one in Washington, D.C. But it _lied._ I’m not him. I’m not your friend.” The words come tumbling out, desperate for them to be true. “Put your gun down.”

Steve puts his hands up in surrender. “I’ll put mine down if you do.”

“I’m giving the orders,” he snaps. 

“Okay, Buck.” Steve leans down slowly, and places his gun on the ground. 

“Don’t call me that!” he snarls. 

“Cap, I think it’s time for you to stop talking now,” Sam says, stepping forward. “Hey man, we’d like it if you came with us. Might help you find out who you are.”

He sounds friendly, but a friendly voice can camouflage a whole host of ill intentions. 

“I’m done with experiments,” he snarls. “They messed around with my brain. I’m not gonna let you do that too. I’m done being a lab rat. Done, you hear?”

He inches backwards, feels the rough edge catch under his heels. He does not heed the warning of the yellow painted line. 

The train is coming into the station. He glances back and knows which option he would rather choose. He will not let them take him by force. 

“No one’s going to hurt you, Bucky,” says Steve. The sincerity is almost overdone. “We’re trying to help you.”

“Yeah, now why don’t you step away from that edge, huh?” Sam chuckles, a little nervous. “You’re making the good captain nervous.”

He leans into dead air.

_“Sam, now.”_

He feels a quick sting in his arm. The sharp, but recognizable impact of a hypodermic needle. He glances down to find a little dart embedded in the wool jacket. Sways forwards on his knees, away from the train tracks. The body’s instinct to live. 

The dark grasp of sedation is impossible to escape.


	2. ii. WILL

 ii. WILL

        He screams sometimes ( _most of the time_ ) in his sleep. He wakes himself up with his own voice echoing in the small space, the white hot heat of his own terror. He brings two doctors running into his room, nurses in blue scrubs, who try to soothe with words. And when words don’t work, they use tranquilizers that keep him dazed but compliant. He has spent a lot of time with the tranquilizers.

       He makes them afraid, the doctors that come around to help. They flinch when he raises his metal arm, or if his voice gets a little too loud. He is afraid of himself and what he can do. He welcomes the way the meds dull everything to a dull roar, so he feels like he is sleepwalking underwater. When Steve comes to speak with him, his words always fade out into a buzz before they reach his ear. Steve’s smile never does, though.

       He finds himself unused to holding conversations. Before, They only wanted to hear him scream. They were Hydra. _They_ were the ones who rid him of his memories. He knows that now, because he has been told that. This, he is told by Steve, makes him a victim. But he saw the truth in Sam’s eyes when they were standing on the train platform. Monsters are murderers. They do not have the luxury of sympathy.

       He is starting to know more things about himself. Just the basics. He knows that he has killed a lot of people and that he was very good at it. He knows this means that he is a bad person. He knows Steve thinks he is someone else. 

 _Steve_ thinks he is good. _Steve_ brought him here, to this room, to be _helped._ Steve brings little doodles and little knickknacks he thinks he might want. Packs of gum in strangely sweet flavors. A yo-yo, still in its packaging. The most help Steve could give him would be a bullet to the brain. He tells him this on the fifth day, doped up to the gills.

      “Do you need anything?” Steve says.

      It is the question that he always asks, usually followed by, ‘Have you remembered anything yet?’ There are only two topics of conversation that are relevant to Steve, and that he could possibly answer. He usually says no to both, but he finds himself considering the question now. The drugs unlock his tongue and the honesty comes flowing, making it easier for him to speak.

      “I need a gun,” he says.

      Steve’s helpful smile dampens. “Oh. Well, I can’t give you that. Uh…why do you want a gun, if I may ask?”

      “Do you think this is helping me?” he demands. His tongue slurs around the words, skating on unsure footing. “It’s not helping. I can’t remember, I’m never gonna remember. I’m never gonna be the man you think I am, because whoever he was is dead. And I should be too. Just give me a gun, Steve. I’ll make it quick outta respect to your friend.”

      “Don’t talk like that,” says Steve, fierce. “I’m going to heal you up, Bucky. I swear to God, I will.”

 

       He is being kept on a floor in Stark Tower, and his nurses and shrinks are all former SHIELD and all paid for and vetted by Tony Stark himself.  The cost is expensive and everything is out of pocket. He hears the argument out in the hallway, despite the thickness of the doors. Tony Stark likes to hear himself talk, and Steve can be loud when he’s angry. 

      “I said that you could keep him here for a few days, not two weeks,” Tony says.

      “You wanted to help,” Steve snaps. “You said you had the resources and the money to do this. What are teams for? Your words.”

      “Yeah, that’s before I knew you were bringing the Exorcist home. He may be in the floor below us but sound travels through air vents.”

      “Is that a movie reference?” Steve asks blankly, his anger momentarily stymied by confusion.

      “Look, I’m sorry this isn’t working out with your friend the way you wanted it to. I really am sorry.” Tony’s voice softens and lowers. “But honestly, you weren’t setting yourself up for a win in the first place. He’s probably going to be permanently unstable. Having your brain fucked with tends to do that.”

 _Permanently unstable._ He flexes his metal arm and stares at the ceiling. He already knew he was beyond hope.

       “And what do you propose I do?” Steve says through gritted teeth. “SHIELD’s been gutted. I can’t take him to a civilian hospital, Tony. They’d have no idea what to do with him.”

        “There are some good private care facilities,” says Tony, subdued. “I know he’s family, I know it’s hard to lose your brother again but somebody’s gotta make a move here, Steve.”

        “Give me another two weeks,” says Steve, finally. “Natasha is looking into some memory re-conditioning programs she thinks might help. And tell Clint to stop hanging out in the air vents.”

       Steve opens the door with such force that the wood rattles in the hinges. He smiles ruefully and makes a point of closing the door gently. He takes his usual seat by the bed.

       “I forget sometimes how strong I am,” Steve says.

       “Stark’s right, you know,” he says.

       Steve frowns. “How much did you hear of that?”

       “Enough to agree with him. I know I’m completely fucked up. Why are you wasting your time with me?”

      “Because you were there for me, once upon a time. And even if you never become that guy again, I’ll still be here. You can’t fight that off, Bucky,” says Steve earnestly.  “I’ll be around bugging you for life, even if you think you don’t deserve it.”

 

      A red headed woman comes to visit the next day. She is dressed sleekly in a white shirt and black skirt, her hair pulled back into a professional bun. The packaging seems intentional, to make her less of a threat. Clothes may make the man, but it cannot change this leopard into anything less than a skillful hunter.

       He feels undressed in his t-shirt and sweatpants. No sneakers, because of the laces. He sits at a plastic table, hands folded in front of him. The chair across from him is empty, waiting for her arrival.

       “I'm Natasha, and I’m a friend of Steve’s,” she says, sitting down. She sets a computer bag down on the table next to her. “I'm here to help you remember.”

       “You're not a doctor.”

       “No,” she agrees, opening up the computer. The blue glow illuminates her pretty, youthful face. “I'll be much more helpful than that. You don't recognize me?”

       “The way you're asking that makes it seem like I should.”

       “We knew each other, in one of your past lives.” She dimples a smile at him, their little secret.

        He has a flash of red hair and muscular thighs griping his neck. Wishful thinking, maybe.

       “I think I’d know a pretty girl like you.”

       “So you understand Russian, then," she says, dipping her head. She uncaps her pen and makes a little note on her pad.

       “Russian?”

       “We had that entire conversation in Russian.” She glances up. "You didn't notice?”

       He shrugs, a little helplessly. “I just knew the words.”

       She surveys him. "Hmm. What do you know about what happened to you?”

       “Steve told me about the conditioning, the brainwashing.” He looks down. “I read my file; I know about the kill count.”

       “You were one of their best assets,” Natasha says simply, as if this is something to be proud of. “I’d like to ask you some questions, and measure your responses on the computer.”

       “A polygraph,” he says.

       She nods, and begins to unpack a roll of wires from the computer bag. The polygraph machine seems bulky compared to the slim laptop, but everything hooks up nevertheless. Natasha slides blank paper under the row of needles. She is careful when she attaches the electrodes, gently tightening the band around his chest. Her fingers are slight but feminine. He has the sudden urge to kiss her hand.

       “Please answer yes and no to all questions,” says Natasha. Her eyes are on the needles scratching across the paper. He stares at the white part down the middle of her hair. “Part of why they’re keeping you here is because they think you might be a danger to other people. Are you?”

       “No,” he replies.

       “Or yourself,” she adds.

       He shifts in his chair and remains fitfully silent, but she doesn’t push him for an answer.

       “Are you working for HYDRA?”

       “No.”

       “Do have any intentions to harm Captain Rogers and his associates?”

       “No.”

       “Is your name James Buchanan Barnes?”

       He hesitates. That's what they tell him. “I don’t know.”

       “Yes or no?”

       If he says yes, he feels like a liar. If he says no, he _is_ lying.

       She taps her finger to her chin. “Do you believe your name is James Buchanan Barnes?'

       He believes Steve. “Yes.”

       “Let's start with what you _do_ remember. You don’t have to stay with yes or no answers. Just talk, free form."

       “Nothing specific. I can finish a fight, but I don't know where I learned to do it. I can shoot out a straggler's eye from a hundred yards away yet I don't remember learning how to fire a gun.”

       “That’s the nice thing about muscle memory,” says Natasha. “It never goes away. How would you say your short term memory is? Events, names from a few days ago?”

       “Patchy. At best. It's hard to keep anything in my head right now.”

       “That should even out, as you move further and further away from the conditioning. The dominant hardwired personality will always strive to assert itself, especially if the conditioning happened as an adult.”

       “The meds aren't helping me with my memory.”

       “Those are meant to treat anxiety and depression. Even out your moods.” She raises an eyebrow.  “From what Steve says, you could probably use them.”

       “He talks about me to you?” he asks. He's not quite sure how he feels about that.

       “Call me an invested party. I know how it feels to feel out of control in your own skin.”

       “Did someone brainwash you too?”

       Her eyes shutter and she looks at him coolly. “We're similar, that's all I’ll say. Memories can be triggered by almost anything--faces, words, scents, sounds. Do you recognize Captain Rogers as a friend?”

       “I think he's the only friend I’ve got right now.  He seems more and more familiar every time I see him.”

       “But you don't remember anything of your friendship pre-1945?”

       “I get flashes. Little bits. A lot of blonde hair. Could be him.”

       “And of your life after HYDRA took you? Close your eyes. Try to concentrate.”

       He shuts his eyes, scrunches up his face. He can only see the darkness in the back of his eyelids. He pushes for the blanks, grabs and _pulls_.

_Small round window like a sub...._

_....the sensation of being closed in a tiny box_

_A woman's stomach giving in to the thrust of his knife..._

       He opens his eyes. He's panting heavily. Sweat drips into his mouth.

       “You remembered something,” says Natasha shrewdly.

       “No. I didn't.”

       “The Winter Solider might have been a good liar, but James Barnes certainly isn't,” says Natasha. “What happened?”

       “I think I mighta been buried alive. And I killed someone." He shakes his head. "I’m done with this.”

       “Remembering those memories is a good sign.”

       “Is it?' he snaps. He rips the electrodes off, and shakes himself free of the wires. “I'd be fine not knowing what I did, ever. It's one thing to know that I killed people, to know how to do it. It's another thing altogether to relive the experience.”

       “Your conscience is bothered by the deaths of innocent civilians,” she says.

       “Yeah, it fucking is. Knowing I caused them.”

       “That doesn’t seem like something the Winter Solider would say,” says Natasha.

       “If you’re trying to make the distinction between him and me, forget about it—there is none.” He shoves the table away from himself, and goes to stand by the window. “You can go, now.”


	3. iii. YOU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I can’t remember me. And it don’t seem fair that you get to. What I do know about me, I don’t like. And if all I have to go on are the bad parts, what the hell does that say about me, huh?”

 iii. YOU           

            It may have better for them all if he had fallen off the train platform. If he had done what he was supposed to do and stayed dead.

            He mentions this to Steve, who blanches as if he’s been slapped. It becomes just another thing he can’t say to Steve because it makes him sad. Somehow he doesn’t like to make Steve unhappy because when Steve is unhappy, he is too. He calls himself Bucky now because that is what he is supposed to do. It sits easier than _winter solider._ And a small gleam of approval always appears in Steve’s eyes. That makes the name worth it, more familiar.

            Bucky can’t say anything to Steve and he can’t say anything to the shrinks, who have become progressively uncomfortable by his overall presence. He doesn’t know who he can speak to so he simply stops talking, just sits on the bed and stares out the window at the New York City skyline.

            He sits quietly for Tony when he comes to fix his arm. Tony stands in the doorway, frowning at him.

            “What’s with the mime impression?”

            Bucky turns his head. _Is that the best you got?_

            “I know, bad joke, but to be fair, it’s hard being funny when 200 pounds of All-American beef is worrying at you night and day. His mother hen impression is exhausting.” Tony stands with his hands in his pockets, rocks back and forth on his heels. “But this _is_ an improvement on your Exorcist impression…”

            Bucky turns away. He still screams at night. They both know that.

            “Steve tell you why I’m here? Of course he did. What else are you two going to talk about? Anyway.” Tony eyes the arm. He inches forward and flutters his fingers like a child reaching for a toy, visibly switching gears. In a more businesslike tone, he says, “I’d like to get a look at your hardware...”

            Bucky proffers the arm for inspection. He doesn’t feel like a science experiment with Tony’s steady stream of chatter puttering on in the background. In Tony’s eyes, he’s something to be improved upon, a machine. Which means he _can_ be fixed.

            “Yeah,” Tony says finally, rotating the arm. His fingers pause over the red star and he taps it thoughtfully. “I’m gonna make you a new one. A better one. How do you feel about red and gold?”

            Bucky shakes his head. No. He doesn’t need to stand out any more than he already does.

            “Something more patriotic? Red, white and blue? Stars and stripes forever?”

            The blithe way he says it triggers something in Bucky and he yanks his arm out of Tony’s grasp. He stands up and strides away from Tony. There is nowhere really for him to go, so he settles for standing by the window. The skyline beckons and so do the streets below. They are very high up in the building. He wonders how long it would take for him to fall.

            “You can’t leave that way. I had JARVIS lock all the windows.”

            Bucky doesn’t know what a JARVIS is, or how he could have gotten in the room. Another doctor? He doesn’t care. He slides down against the wall, rubbing his left arm.

            “Hey,” Tony says, nervous. “I’m sorry; I don’t know what I said. But I didn’t mean to offend.”

            He just stares up at Tony, mouth working furiously. He clenches the metal hand in a finch. Could punch him. Doesn’t.

            “Tony!” The shout comes from outside. It’s Steve’s voice. Bucky can see his angry eyes through the window.

            Tony opens the door. Steve rushes in, takes in his sitting position and turns on Tony.

            “What did you say to him?”   

            “I—we were just talking about colors for the arm. For once this situation is not my fault.”

            “You should go.”

            “That’s fine. I’ve got all I need for the specs, anyway. Bigger and better, Barnes!” Tony calls before Steve pushes him out of the door.

            “You okay?” Steve asks. He crouches down on the floor. Something about his big bulk in the tiny cramped squat makes Bucky smile. “I’m sorry about him. He can be an ass.”

            _I was one, too,_ Bucky thinks and this knowledge startles him. He has a flash of his own face, giving that same cocky smile, taking pleasure in his ability to charm. He inhales, wide eyed.

            “You remember something?” says Steve, eager.

            Bucky nods, slow.

            “Something good?”

            Bucky hesitates, then nods again.

            “You want tell me about it?” asks Steve gently.

            “There was a dame,” Bucky starts. “No, two of them.”

            “Ah,” Steve smiles. “Figures.”

            “I think I was taking them out? I dunno. You mighta been there?” he says, then stops.  “That’s all I got.”  

            “Well, it’s something,” says Steve diplomatically, trying to hide his disappointment.

            “It’s nothing,” Bucky snaps. “It’s a smile and a feeling and then it all goes away. All I get are these fragments, Steve, pieces. And I don’t know how you can keep looking at me as if you like me when all I’ve got to go on is that. _I can’t remember me_. And it don’t seem fair that you get to. What I do know about me, I don’t like. And if all I have to go on are the bad parts, what the hell does that say about me, huh?”

            “You don’t want to be a bad guy, Buck. To me that says everything about the kind of man you are.”

            “You’ve got too much faith in me, Steve.”

            “No, I think I have just enough,” says Steve, smiling faintly.

 

            Natasha comes back to visit even though he doesn't expect her to. She wears what he thinks of her civilian clothes now: dark blue jeans and a slouchy sweater, one hand tucked in the back pocket.

            “More questions?” he says. The tile is cold against his bare feet. They still aren’t letting him have real shoes.

            She spins her chair around and rests her arms on the curved back. “No polygraphs today.”

            “I didn’t think you were the kind of gal to do social visits.”

            “I thought you could use a little company.”

            “Yeah, all Stark does is take measurements of my arm and talk at me about science,” Bucky says. “I’m getting damn tired of staring at these walls.”

            “I could arrange for you to have access to the entire floor,” says Natasha. “We’re fairly certain that you no longer pose a threat.”

            He leans his chair back. “Might be nice to stretch my legs a bit.”

            A light knock on the door. It is not quite a prison, even though the door locks from the outside. He still can have the illusion of privacy, of granting a visitor entrance. Tony just lets himself in.  Bucky figures that he’s used to owning every room that he walks into. And he does, technically, own this one. Bucky likes that Steve always makes a point of knocking first.

            “Come in,” he says.

            But his visitor is neither Steve nor Tony.

            It’s the friend—from Zurich. Sam. His arm is still in a sling. Bucky’s pulse jumps. With wary eyes, he watches Sam approach the table, trying to decipher the other man’s intent.

             To his surprise, Natasha greets Sam with a kiss to his cheek. Bucky is saddened by that. He has wanted so badly to trust her.

             Sam stares back, seeming discomforted by his attention. “What's up, dude?”

             “Sam, you've met Bucky before.”

             Sam snorts and sits in the chair next to Natasha. “We've met, alright.”

             Bucky surveys him uncertainly. Sam’s tone seems jocular, his body language relaxed, but Sam has to only want one thing. “Are you here for retribution?”

             Sam turns to Natasha. “Nat, what's he taking about?”  
  
             “I shot you,” says Bucky blankly.

             Sam tugs at the strap of his sling. “Yeah, Steve and I had a good long chat about that. Don’t get me wrong—I’m still pissed. But I’ll let you off the hook…if you play a game of poker with me.”

             “Poker,” he says flatly.

             Sam’s sincerity remains intact. “You play? Natasha tells me your lying face is horrendous. I'm thinking maybe you can pay me back through a few rounds of cards. No playing for money, though or Natasha will clean both of us out.”

             Natasha shrugs. “True.”

             Sam surveys the collection of knickknacks on top of the bedside table. He swipes the pile of chewing gum. “How about these?”

             Steve has brought him seven or eight packs of gum, all different flavors. Enough for a sizeable pot. They rip open the packs and spill small squares and flat rectangles into the table. The sugary smell of artificial watermelon wafts up.

             “That's a lot of Double Bubble,” says Sam, grinning. “Do you even like gum?”

              Bucky shrugs. He still can’t figure Sam out, why the man would possibly be friendly to him.

              Natasha unwraps a square and pops it into her mouth. She chews quickly and blows a large pink bubble that explodes stickily into her nose. She smiles.

             “Stop eating the poker chips,” scolds Sam. He shuffles the deck and begins dealing the cards. “Aces are high, deuces wild. You need a refresher course, Barnes?”

              Bucky flexes his fingers. “Something’s starting to come back to me.”

              They play two games and Bucky finds that the rules surface easily in his mind. Strategy comes instinctively; he finds himself watching for facial tics that spell a bluff. Natasha’s face is smooth as sea glass and any crack is intentional, designed to throw them off. Sam is an emotional player, who scratches his fingernail against his cheek when he has a good hand. At the end of both rounds, Natasha has amassed four full packs of gum, Bucky two and half packs, and Sam a measly two pieces.

              Sam hangs his head. “Man, I’m not playing with you guys anymore.”

              “Aren’t you glad we stuck to gum?” says Natasha, grinning mischievously.

             “My bank account is.” Sam turns to Bucky. “You’re secretly a card shark.”

              “Your tells speak very loudly,” he replies.

              “Damn. I might have to come back just to work on my game.”

              Bucky lowers his eyes as he sweeps the cards into a pile. He recognizes the hint for what it is—an invitation of friendship, which both pleases and confuses him. He’s not sure what Sam sees in him, but he’s not going to debate the finer points. Sam had walked in here with both eyes opened; he knows exactly what he’s getting.

              “So what do you say?” Sam asks. “Seems to me like you could use a couple more guys on your side.”

              “My dance card’s not very full these days,” says Bucky. “Yeah. Come back any time.”


	4. iv. THAT.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t want you to feel like a prisoner, cause that means you’ve done something wrong. And you’ve spent enough of your life being locked up for someone else’s whims.” Steve’s face gets big and fierce, like his emotions are too much for a single expression to encompass. “And I especially don’t want you to feel like you’ve got to stay for me. Even if you don’t remember me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: panic attacks
> 
> Hullo, all! I believe I originally billed this as a '5 times' story, but I've changed my original concept and so that summary is no longer correct. The theme is still identity and recovery, however.
> 
> Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed it, please remember to hit the 'kudos' button at the end. Cheers!

iv. THAT

   The sea falls in along with the chains and the black box has cracked. He can only think of shipwreck metaphors and crushed junk to describe how his mind is moving right now, livewire and alive. Energy thrums under the skin and pools at the base of his fingertips. He could light the world on fire in a heartbeat, destroy them all and he would not give a damn to who survived as long as they are all gone. They could be HYDRA or they could be innocent. He wants this city to burn.

    Bucky _prowls_ around the apartment floor. He hates to admit that it _is_ prowling, but his steps come light and quick, with balanced footwork alongside the walls of the living room. Once he has set into these old patterns, instinct is hard to break, and he finds himself appraising the strength of the lift doors (locked by the mysterious electric presence above). Easy to pry open with the metal hand. The metal hand wants to get out. It can remember scaling buildings and crushing the delicate muscles of the throat. They talk about phantom limbs, but his is a fucking poltergeist and it has a mind of its own. He wants it off of his body _now_. But Stark dawdles and lingers with the designs, and he refuses to beg at Stark’s feet for the new one.

    He can feel a thread tugging at his mind like an old forgotten itch, throbbing at the base of his skull. He is moving in his own skin, pent up with it, writhing, clothes sealed hermetically. And Bucky leans one hand up against the glass, the real hand (human? no only half human robot, _you’re not a real boy_ ), and flexes and tries to breathe. His chest is too tight, and he is very aware of how much air is rippling in and out of his lungs. And once that awareness has sunk its teeth into him, all he can do is count breaths and try not to pass out. 

    Today is a bad day.

    There is not enough air in this room. Some motherfucker has filled it with mustard gas. The Nazis have taken Manhattan. Hail HYDRA and Hitler. You were never a good American in the first place; please take me into your ruling class. I did so much work for you before. Bucky grips the neck of his T-shirt and drags it down past his collar bone. No, that is a lie ( _you said you hated lies_ ), he is panicking. Over nothing. Over a plate of meatloaf at dinner. He is simply alive and anxious about it. There is nothing to be afraid of.

   Did someone tell you that the war was over? Are they keeping more secrets from you?

   “Nothing to be afraid of, Buck.”

    And he must be truly far gone because he can swear that feels like Steve’s voice. And Steve’s hand on the back of his neck.

    He rolls his head on his neck, from side to side. That _is_ Steve’s big dumb blonde head, frowning down at him in concern.

    “You’re doing okay. Everything’s fine.”

    He knows this. But knowing this means nothing, logic flies in the face of the body’s rebellion, and no amount of rationalization can drive a panic attack away. Steve’s hand moves down to the planes of his shoulder blades, in circular patterns. He should resent this petting of temper and smothering concern. But it is home and it is the only time he has really felt safe since Zurich. He would drift away back into the despair that creeps over but Steve would never let him do that. Steve makes himself Bucky’s anchor, whether Bucky wants him to or not. He wonders if Bucky Mach 1, the original model, (see, Stark, he can make robot jokes too) ever felt this way. He thinks about what Natasha said about the dominant personality reasserting itself. Old familiar patterns, indeed.

   The constriction in his chest eases as the attack passes. His breaths come easier as his mind eases and the thoughts stop. Bucky comes back to himself via the candles Steve has lit along the way.

   “Okay?” says Steve simply. It’s matter of fact, almost like they’re doing a check before a mission. Bucky has heard him say that before. He is sure of it.

   “Yeah,” he says gruffly, embarrassed now. “Just…cabin fever. Haven’t been outside in a while.”

   He reaches up to tug at the ends of his hair and stops when he reaches nothing but soft stubs. Natasha had cut it, day before yesterday. Something about disliking prison chic. She had also picked up him up a real wardrobe—denim jeans, striped shirts and oddly colored sneakers. He can have shoes, now. Baby steps.

   Bucky straightens, and brushes past Steve, careful not to touch him. He flops over on the couch, deliberately sprawling to cover the space so Steve will pick up his legs. But Steve doesn’t move, just stands by the window with a thoughtful expression and a cardboard box by his feet.w

   “I guess you haven’t. Bet you must be pretty sick and tired of this place.”

   He is. And yet, it is a haven, with people he recognizes even if he doesn’t trust them. He still can’t bring himself to face the outside world. He both aches for and shies away from more human stimulation. Being surrounded on all sides by unfamiliar people is enough to make the thoughts ( _bad, dark, don’t_ ) come racing back.

   “Stark’s made it a pretty swanky cell.”

   Steve sinks into the armchair opposite Bucky. “You’re not a prisoner.”

   They’ve had this conversation before, but Bucky’s spoiling for an argument. A fight with words that might lead to fists and help him forget his embarrassment. Brawling makes him feel competent, gives him strength. No one’s thinking of how weak you are when your fist is punching their face.

   “Mm, I can leave now?” he drawls, sarcastic. He knows exactly which buttons to push to get a rise out of Steve. It’s not fair to Steve, ( _helpful goddamned patient saint)_ but he’s here to make himself happy and so. Go on, Captain America. Give me a taste of that shield.

   Steve’s face darkens. “Those locks are for _your_ protection.”

   “And Natasha still thinks I’m a threat. After all, we wouldn’t want the good people of New York City to be murdered alive in their beds.” He flexes the arm, a promise. “If I escaped tomorrow, you’d have what’s left of SHIELD out after me, and not because you’re worried about my poor old brain messing me up.”

   “You were a dangerous asset, once.” Steve purses his mouth. “If your tactical training is still intact as Natasha thinks it is, then you have the capabilities to run far away and go to ground forever. No one could catch you.”

   “I knew you agreed with Natasha.” _I know you still think of me as the Winter Solider_. As a target to be eliminated. Euthanized nicely and humanely.His belligerence gives way to a sadder kind of fear. The black box is in need of repair.

   Steve looks up at the ceiling. “JARVIS, remove all security measures on this floor and unlock the lift doors.”

   The pleasant English accent echoes back. “Confirmation required.”

   “Captain Steve Rogers, requesting. Password is MYSEXYPATRIOTICASSROXX.” Steve sighs a little before responding. He glares at Bucky, who snickers before he can stop himself. The levity lightens the tension in the room. “Tony made it and I don’t know how to change anything on those computers.”

    Bucky is on the edge of making a smart reply when the lift doors spring to life and open. They stay that way for a full minute before Bucky sits up and stares at Steve. “What are you doing?”

    “If you wanna run, run. I’m not gonna try to stop you or go after you.” His voice has thickened and slid into his own Brooklyn brogue. The pitch and mimicry of Bucky’s own inflection does something to the base of his throat.

    “Steve…”

    “I don’t want you to feel like a prisoner, cause that means you’ve done something wrong. And you’ve spent enough of your life being locked up for someone else’s whims.” Steve’s face gets big and fierce, like his emotions are too much for a single expression to encompass. “And I especially don’t want you to feel like you’ve got to stay for me. Even if you don’t remember me.”

    “But I am gonna stay because of you,” Bucky says roughly. “Because you’re the only goddamned guy that believes I’ve got something good in me. And if I _am_ ever gonna get my memories back, it’ll be thanks to you. My mind works better when you’re around, pal.”

    Steve swallows. “You could start over, anywhere in the world. We’d give you a different identity so you’d be someone brand new.”

    Bucky shrugs. “I kinda feel like I already got my second start. On a train platform in Zurich.”

    Steve’s smile swells. He blushes a little. “I was kinda thinking that too.”

    “Hey, what’s in the box?” Bucky says, forcibly changing the subject.

    Steve looks down. “Some odds and ends I found. But we don’t have to look at it right now.”

    “Not more gum.”

    “You didn’t like the gum?” says Steve.

    “I got one mouth, not seven. So what is it?”

    “Some photo albums. And a few films from Tony’s father. Howard really liked any newfangled invention.”

     Bucky smirks. “Apple doesn’t fall far, huh?”

     “Tony’d be the first one to tell you how different they are,” Steve replies. “Howard was…an interesting guy. You two…didn’t quite take to each other.”

     Bucky leans over and lifts the first album from the pile. He flips through the pictures slowly at first, waiting for a lightning strike of recognition. Some photos are sepia, the others black and white. He runs a finger over a summer holiday picture—the skinny white chest of an underweight Steve, stomach nearly concave, and the boy who looked like him. It feels like a stranger’s life, like he’s treading on someone else’s grave. He feels contempt for the fresh-faced boy in the photographs, ignorant of all the hurt in the world, pleased with himself and cocksure about his ability to conquer everything. He suddenly has no patience for the younger incarnations of himself, for the identities he has shed long ago. He snaps the album closed.

    "Where'd you get these?"

    "Bruce found em on The E-Bay. People collect these kinda things now,” says Steve. He looks a little baffled. “Just because it’s related to the Howling Commandos.”

    “They buy it for Captain America,” Bucky corrects him. “Everything else is just a sideshow.”

    “I’ve seen your ugly mug on a lunch box,” retorts Steve.

    “Everyone likes a good tragic death. It’s heroic.”

    “You’re not dead anymore,” says Steve.

    “Yeah, Lazarus ain’t got nothing on me.”

    “You gonna perform miracles?”

    “I’m still walking around and breathing. That’s miracle enough.”


	5. v. REMEMBER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky inspects the collection. "Captain America’s Brothers: Howling Commandos of the 107th, from Italy to the End," by Stephen Ambrose.
> 
> “They made a mini-series out of that one,” says Sam. “It won a couple of Oscars. I think Ron Livingston played you.”

v. REMEMBER

 

         Sam drops by the next day. His eyes skim the stacks of photo albums and film reels on the coffee table, and pause on a sack of marbles. He laughs, turning the package over in his hands.

         “Do you think he just wandered into a store, saw this and thought, ‘Sure, Bucky’ll like that’?”

         “He’s trying to jog my memory,” says Bucky shortly.

         “With aggies and cat’s eyes?”

         “Used to play as a kid. You’re one to talk, anyway.” Bucky motions to the backpack Sam is carrying. “More films?”

         “So to speak.” Sam upends the bag over the living room carpet. Thick, battered books and a few DVD cases tumble out.

          Bucky inspects the collection. Acquired secondhand, he supposes. Captain America and Nazi Germany: How Super-Solider Serum Turned the Tide of War, Allan Reed Millett. HYDRA and the Third Reich, William L. Shirer.  Captain America’s Brothers: Howling Commandos of the 107th, from Italy to the End, by Stephen Ambrose.

       “They made a mini-series out of that one,” says Sam. “It won a couple of Oscars. I think Ron Livingston played you.”

        Bucky nudges the books away with his foot. “I’m not much for reading.”

        “There are pictures.”

         He glares.

         “No, dude. I mean that literally.” Sam picks up Captain America’s Brothers, and flips to the middle and a spread of glossy photos. “Look. Before missions, after training in England...they even have Steve’s publicity posters from his time as a chorus girl.”

         Bucky squints at a formal squad photo. Stiffed back poses. No smiles. The man with the very large mustache is wearing a Sergeant’s cap, and no bowler hat. This is significant. Because? _Because_ …nothing. He is identified in the description as Dum Dum Dugan. Very strange name.

         “I think I remember him,” says Bucky, tapping on Dugan’s spectacular facial hair. “He smoked a lot of cigars. And I lost a lot of money playing poker with _him._ ” He points out Gabriel Jones.

          Sam grins widely. “Aw, _man,_ that is cool. Stories about Jones right from the source.”

          Bucky raises an eyebrow. The condition of the well-loved books is starting to make sense to him. Sam didn’t just run out and buy them. “Are you one of those collectors Steve was talking about?”

          “I dressed up as Gabriel Jones for every single Halloween and that man is a personal hero. The Howling Commandos _mean_ something to me.” Sam blushes a little. “Sorry. I mean, you were in them, and actually there.”

           “It’s nice to see that someone still cares about all this.”

           “You know that your unit was the only integrated company during the war?”

            Bucky shrugs. “I’ll bet Steve didn’t care what anyone looked like as long as he could shoot.”

            “Steve’s a good man,” says Sam. “Except for his taste in presents. I had a cat once who used to bring me dead mice and birds. Similar principle.”

            “Well, there’s something to be grateful for. No dead rats.”

            The lift pings sharply and Tony steps out on the heels of Bucky’s sentence. He stops in his tracks, and coughs sharply. “I feel like I came at a bad time.”

            Sam winks. “Bucky was just telling me about eating conditions during the war.”

            “You can get good eating from a rat,” says Bucky solemnly.

            Tony makes a moue of disgust. “Of all the things to stick with you.”

            “Guys in the Pacific ate cats.”

            “Still do,” says Sam.

            “Yeah, if we could move on from culinary discussions, that would be great. I brought you a present.” Tony pulls a long, rectangular box from behind his back. He rattles the contents and waggles his eyebrows.

            “Hope it’s better than Steve’s,” says Bucky.

            “Is he still trying to woo you through gifts? I’m telling you—Capsicle is one cheap date. Don’t put out until you get flowers at least.”

            “What’s in the box, Stark?” Bucky says impatiently. He’s fairly certain that he knows the answer anyway.

            Tony opens the top with a flourish. The arm ( _his_ arm) looks as human as anything metal can hope to look. Carved flesh like an ancient Greek sculpture. Beautiful, really. Metal craftsmanship at its finest. He decides not to tell this to Tony and swell his head even more.

            “Same metal alloy as Cap’s shield,” says Tony. “I kept it simple because certain parties thought you might want that. But I can modify it to add a flame thrower if you want.”

            Sam rolls his eyes.

            Bucky strokes the hand. The adamantium is cool to the touch. Sleek and hardly ostentatious. Not what he was expecting from the way Stark put on flashy airs.

            “You want to take it for a test drive?”

            “It’s not a simple as unscrewing it,” replies Bucky.

            “Uh, I’m a genius—I know what I’m doing,” Stark says. “And I’ll have you know that Stark Industries is the leading producers of prosthetics and we donate regularly to the Yinsen Fund For Victims of War.”

            He holds his chin up, face set defiantly. Bucky can see now how Steve can like this guy.

            “Sure,” he says. “Fit me up.”

            Tony rubs his hands together, looking a little too excited for Bucky’s comfort.

 

 

            The lift is comprised of shiny, reflective panels and it is impossible to avoid seeing his face mirrored back. He has used the mirror in the bathroom only to shave, and focused on the parts required for the task at hand, ignoring the left side entirely. Florescent lights cannot disguise the dark hollows under his eyes, emotional shadows brought to physicality. There is a sort of grim misery about his mouth. But he possesses a certain gaunt handsomeness not dissimilar to some of the later photographs.

            Bucky sees his own body, with his left arm finally his own, and for once is not actively disgusted by it. The new arm was built for _him_. And even though Bucky suspects that arm was made on Steve’s command, Tony still poured himself into the project. It has Tony’s genius imprinted on every inch of the design and Tony had spared no expense in the quality of the construction. That makes the guy all right in his book.

            “The arm should hold up under testing conditions,” Tony says, rocking up on his heels. “It is considerably stronger than your old one, so keep that in mind when you’re jerking off.”

             “Why?” Bucky deadpans. “I’m sure you can build me a new dick.”

            “You know, I’m a huge fan of cybernetic engineering, but I’d be the first one to tell you that man-machine love ends badly.”

            “I hope that’s not first-hand experience,” Sam groans. “Tell me you did not fuck those robots of yours, Tony.”

            “All I will say is that some objects can’t be improved upon, and it’s best to leave design to the professionals.” Tony glances back. “It was a dildo. I was trying to build a better dildo.”

            The lift doors open, and Tony steps out to Sam and Bucky’s chorus of hysterical laughter at his back. He snaps his fingers impatiently.

            “I want to see how that beauty works,” Tony says. He points to the far corner and directs, “Head over to that heavy bag.”

            The basement of Stark Tower has been turned into a quality gym. Bucky notes the wide expanse of mats for sparring, the speed bag and boxing ring. The space is clearly made for the use of professionals, and a large group at that.

           “Feeling homicidal today, Banes?” Tony says.

            “Let’s find out,” Bucky shoots back.

            He slips on a red boxing glove onto his right hand, wrapping his wrist with tape mostly on instinct. Sam positions himself on the edge of the sparring mat, nearer to the entrance. Tony stands to the left, for the best observational vantage point.

            “I reinforced this for the Capsicle,” says Tony. “You should watch him work the bag. Each ass cheek flexes individually. Even those godawful khakis can’t camouflage the perfection that is Steve’s ass. _Mm-hmm_.”

            He glances meaningfully at Bucky, who is not entirely sure how to take this. He finds that his mouth has gone suddenly dry.

            “Can’t say I’ve noticed,” Bucky replies, looking away.

            “Don’t worry,” says Sam, cheerfully. “Steve is just as oblivious as you are.”

            Bucky stands in with his left foot in front of his right, feeling the balance in the stance. He clenches his left fist and heaves it as hard as he can. The power behind the arm pleases him. He throws another jab, close and quick. And then a right cross, because why not? He falls into a rhythm, finding the footwork easy, breathing lightly through his mouth. He forgets the presence of both Sam and Stark, and lets them melt away as insignificant. Takes all the focus into allowing his body to be a machine under _his_ control. The arm seems to respond to his pleasure.

            Jab. Cross. Jab. Hook. Anger builds. Bucky lets it flow through his knuckles, pushing the force into the bag. Nothing feels as right as this. The bag rattles on its chain.

            Finishing a fight is natural. But who is he supposed to finish it for? For the cause, not for the handlers. A blond boy, trembling with bravery and nerves. The little guy. His vision swims with tears and sweat.

            Fuck the scientists. Fuck Zola. He’d rather be dead than be this…this… _experiment_.

            The bag swings off as he delivers a forceful left cross. He doubles over on his knees, breathing heavily.

            A water bottle appears on the edge of his vision. Bucky takes the bottle and squirts water on top of his head. He straightens. Sam looks impressed.

            “This bag has been tested by a _demi-god_. But it’s your robotic arm that does it in.” Tony kicks the bag with the toe of an expensive Italian loafer. “Damn, I am _good_. _”_

            “Guess art therapy might not be the best thing for you,” says Sam.

 

            A sweeping, melancholy orchestral theme plays over title credits and frozen images of young men at war. It cuts to a group of elderly men, sitting in chairs in front of a black backdrop. The camera zooms on a white haired Asian man. Jim Morita, identifies the caption. When he speaks, his voice is strong.

            “The Howling Commandos were an elite fighting force charged with hitting HYDRA, part of the Nazi deep science division. We were led by Captain Steve Rogers, and our second in command was Sergeant James Barnes.”

            Bucky finds that he is holding his breath. He forces himself to exhale and relax.

            “We didn’t just fight for the mission,” Morita says. He blinks and he quavers a little. “We fought for each other.”

            The screen flashes back to black. White letters bright: CHAPTER 1. TWO KIDS FROM BROOKLYN.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All authors mentioned are real World War II historians. The titles are what might have been written had we existed in the Marvel Universe. The miniseries alluded to is obviously Band of Brothers. If you are at all interested in WWII history, I recommend picking up a copy of Major Dick Winter's book (Winters was the commander of Easy Company) as it is an excellent read.


	6. vi. SPLIT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is he the hero or the weapon? The loyal friend or the monster?

vi. SPLIT

            Watching _Captain America’s Brothers_ is a surreal experience. He views the entire series in two long sittings, stopping only to make a haphazard cheese on toast.

            The hard truth of the documentaries and home films had been too close and he had felt like he was supposed to know everything, which made him reject the photos as alien, as someone else. But with the lines between fiction and reality blurred, he can accept the story as it is, shading in his gaps with a bright cinematic pen. He can close his eyes and see himself on a HYDRA base, marching on the road to Germany. And though the setting might be a mock up, it is close enough to reality to qualify as a memory.

            The camaraderie between Film-Bucky and Film-Steve feels a little like déjà vu. But the actors are distinctly different enough from him and Steve that Bucky enjoys their banter as entertaining rather than painful. Steve’s actor brings a mature dignity to his role, reciting the lines with an earnest self-consciousness that makes him a man, not a paragon.

            The elderly Howling Commandos speak of Sergeant Barnes’ charisma and courage, impressions softened and forgiving after sixty years. The stories of men in their twilight years are inclined to be awash in nostalgia—especially in the wake of losing both the commanding officer and NCO. The tinting of the truth infuriates Bucky, as Steve becomes further canonized and Bucky himself becomes Hector, struck down in his moment of youthful glory.

            He wants another side to the story.

            So he picks up Millett’s heavy book and drops it after the introduction. Reads Falsworth’s memoirs and Gabe Jones’ account of the founding of Shield. Watches _Saving Bucky Barnes_ , a maudlin drama that seems to exist mainly to showcase Steve standing shirtless in the rain and wonders why Sam has this film in the first place. With each of the films comes another incarnation of their friendship, the only constant through the various mediums.

             Even the lengthy biopic _The Captain_ has him in a dopey role as a sidekick. He makes Steve look good and is cast in a series of damsel-in-distress situations which Bucky would resent if he weren’t so busy laughing. The Captain also gives the Sergeant many looks of intense longing. After the fifth exchange, Bucky switches the computer off. _That_ must have been a Hollywood thing. He’s sure of it.

 

_Summer in July, and candles on a cake, icing sweating in the heat…._

_….the smooth bald head of a target on his cellphone, right before he pulls the trigger_

_The girl kisses her lipstick into his mouth, and she tastes like vermouth and sugar…._

_…needles pressing into his head and his screams echo and everyone hears but no one cares_

He opens his eyes. They water. He thinks the birthday cake was Steve’s.

            “Anything?” says Natasha.

            She’s sitting across from him at the kitchen counter, her head propped up on her hand.

            Bucky shakes his head.

            The memories can come back to him suddenly and they slip away just as easily. He spends time probing the blank spots, the wide expanse of darkness, but he only pushes half-heartedly. He is sure now that the memories that come back might not be all good. Most of them might be about death and killing.

            “You’re not trying hard enough,” says Natasha.

            “Trying is not going to bring back something that ain’t there,” Bucky snaps. He has a headache.  “You said it yourself, I might never remember.”

            HYDRA had wiped him clean like a computer. A machine to be dealt with whenever the programming glitched. _That_ is the true tragedy. At least Sergeant Barnes had a clean hero’s death—a grave at Arlington, a noble sacrifice.

            “Forgetting can be the mind’s way of protecting itself from trauma,” she agrees. “But your memories must have begun to reassert themselves; otherwise HYDRA would not have bothered with repeated conditioning. They wanted the Winter Solider to be calm and obedient.”

            Bucky is sure he is none of those things.

            “You say that you still remember how to shoot,” Natasha says. “We should find out.”

            “That’s not a good idea.”

With the gun in his hand, he could relapse. The assassin’s training is still intact. It could regain control and he could kill her. He can pick out sightlines, find exits. His arm remembers how to choke someone out. Natasha was right—the muscles _do_ know more than the brain.

            She meets his eyes. “If anything happens, I promise: I will take you down myself.”

            The assurance settles him. Natasha understands.

            She takes him down to the shooting range, a level past the gymnasium. The room is furnished with three different stalls, human shaped targets hanging down the far end of the alley. A table sits in the corner, covered with semi-automatic weapons and a compact bow.

            Bucky takes the pistol, hefts the weight in his hands. The magazine is loaded already, but the safety is on. He brings the gun to the first stall, and snaps ear muffs over his head. Squints at the crosshairs of the target, 20 metres away. In the corner of his eye, he can see Natasha standing in front of the entrance with her arms crossed, pink ear plugs winking out behind her hair.

            He disengages the safety, and shifts to a shooting stance: arms extended, breath neutral. A kind of calm descends as instinct takes over. Dreamily, he fires three times, grouping the shots to the middle of the target. A precise kill shot to the heart. The magazine is still full, so Bucky empties the rest of the clip into the head. Double tap. Pleasing symmetry.

            The room echoes with the vibration of the final shot. He puts the gun down, and hits the button to bring the target back. Removes his ear muffs. Natasha comes over, her footsteps soft. In silence, they both stare at the six holes blown through the paper.

_Small wounds in the back of the shirt…got him running away…arterial blood leaves bright and dries dark…_

           Bucky pokes his little finger through one of the holes, feeling faint. ( _I did that to a human being.)_ He does not remember who the man might have been.  

           “You’re a very good shot,” says Natasha. She means it as a compliment.

           Double tap. Pleasing symmetry. ( _He has thought this before.)_ The faint feeling rears up and he turns away from her, retching thin streams of bile into the stall. He stays there, woozy, until the nausea fades and he is strong enough to shove the gun into her hands.

           Natasha does not bring up shooting again.

 

 

            Is he the hero or the weapon?

            The duality of his mind is only compounded by the frustrating lack of memories. He tries to construct himself on hearsay, on the pieces of someone else’s imperfect recollection—the inadequate remnants of the past. If the past only leaves him grasping and inadequate, the best course would be to forget it altogether. But a man is nothing without his basest sense of self, without a creed to live by. Past experiences give a basis for identity; construct the frame of the future. He is adrift in this modern world, a prisoner of the cage his captors made for him years ago.

            Bucky can’t begin to reconcile himself to the heroic mantle, nor the pity of victimhood. The anger (the killer) existed within him long before HYDRA refined the edges into a blade that cut on command. Violence is the way of the Winter Solider, but it had been the old Bucky’s as well. The only difference was the party it was directed towards. He is afraid that because these instincts are what remain of him, he killed because he liked to watch people die. Does he belong around Captain America, who exudes a canny idealism in the innate goodness of man?

            Is he the loyal friend or the monster?

 

            “Steve’s trying to push you, right? To remember stuff from your old life?”

            Sam is back for a visit. He’s cooking pork chops on the hob, the lines of his body easy and relaxed. The smoky smell of charred meat makes the Tower seem almost domestic. Bucky doesn’t know when Sam became a good friend, but he’s glad of it. He takes a pull from his bottle of beer, feeling the alcohol unwind him as it zips through his veins.

            “Constantly.”

            “I like Steve a lot, but he’s not exactly qualified to give advice on this. And if you ask me, he’s a little too close to be objective,” says Sam. “Seems like the weight of his expectations could be a little stressful.”

            Bucky thinks about the way Steve smiles when he admits to remembering some piece of a shared event. He has been tempted to lie and make up memories just to make Steve happy, to feel less like a failure. He’d recount a hundred stories just to feel closer to Steve, more like his old friend, rather than some imposter who wears his face. He wants to feel worthy of Steve’s friendship. Wants to feel that Steve likes him for who he is right now, missing pieces and all, rather than the shadow that trails him.

            “I think if I woke up tomorrow and I was his old friend again, he’d die of happiness,” says Bucky slowly. “But every time I don’t, I think I’m just disappointing him more.”

            “That’s not on you. That’s Steve’s problem. He’s got to learn to be happy with what he has.”

            “I’m not much.”

            “You’re pretty damn good at poker. I’d keep you around just for that.”

            Bucky shrugs. “I watched that mini-series.”

            “What’d you think?”

            “I thought the bridge scene was done well,” he says.

            Sam looks up. “Did you just make a joke about your own death scene?”

            Bucky smirks. “I guess I did.”

            Sam shakes his head. “I like you a lot better now than when you were trying to kill me.”

            “I was being nice.”

            “Man, we’ve gotta work on your definition of nice.”

            “I’m still trying to be nice,” Bucky says softly. “I don’t want to hurt anymore people.”

            “That’s good, man. I’d call that progress.” Sam surveys him. “Tell you what—I’ll spring you out of here for a day. Get of jail free pass.”

            “Jail?”

            “Metaphorically speaking. I mean, you’re free to leave. I think? Technically.” He frowns. “Well, anyway. I have a lot of practise with this sort of thing.”

            “Baby-sitting fucked up people?”

            “Watching out for a fellow solider.” Sam’s eyes soften a little. “Don’t worry, man. I’ve got your six.”

 

           

            In the morning, they take a private car, driven by Stark’s driver, whose name is actually Happy Hogan. It is the first time since the Zurich train platform that Bucky has been outside. He resists the urge to press his fingers to the glass in the passenger side window. Traffic clogs the road and throngs of tourists slowly move en mass along the footway. New York has changed, but not in the ways that matter. The city is still crowded, still too large for its own good. People still go about their shopping and sightseeing.

            Within the confines of the vehicle, they are safely isolated from the crowd.  He is glad of that. He doesn’t like the look of some of those shoppers. Any one of them could be carrying a weapon. Sam glances at him, casually from time to time, taking his mood. Bucky doesn’t mind.

            “It’s nice to travel in style, huh?” Sam says.

            “Sure is.”

            “I think we’ll be seeing a lot of you, Happy,” Sam calls to the driver.

            “Well, it’s an honor, Mr. Wilson, Sgt. Barnes—“

            “Don’t call me that,” says Bucky immediately.

            “Mr. Barnes, then,” comes the reply and Bucky has to smile at the affectation. Mr. Barnes, indeed. Makes it sound like he’s somebody.

            “I still feel like a tourist sometimes,” says Sam, leaning back. “It’s different from Washington.”

            “Why’d you stay?”

            “Steve asked me to. Couldn’t say no to those baby blues. And Tony’s making me a new set of wings for when I join the team.”

            The team. The mysterious team that Steve leads, which everyone seems to be a part of, but him. He’s tempted to press for more details, but on a certain level, he believes that Steve might not want him to know.  He is Steve’s great big shameful secret, thinks Bucky resentfully. Mr. Rochester’s crazy wife, hidden in the attic.

            Happy brings the car to rest in front of a diner. The outside brick is dilapidated and in desperate need of repair. One of the lights in the sign blinks on and off slowly.

            “You wouldn’t know it just by looking, but this place serves the best coffee in Manhattan,” says Sam. “I seem to remember visiting a lot of cafés while we were chasing you around Europe.”

            Bucky shrugs. Coffee is a luxury.

            They take a seat in a booth, snug in the very back of the restaurant. Close to the exits and also to the kitchen. He approves of Sam’s choice.

            Their female server has short hair and a long, brightly coloured skirt. Her eyes skitter across the arm and land on his face. He knows he looks exhausted, that he’s projecting discomfort and anxiety. The Winter Solider would have fought through the emotions. Bucky just lets it consume him.

            “Another falcon in the flock, Wilson?” she says.

            “Don’t mess with him, Baldwin,” says Sam warningly, but good natured. “He’s fresh out.”

            “No worries,” the woman says, setting down two chipped mugs.

            “This is James. He’ll have a coffee and so will I.”

            “I’m Haley,” she says, sliding two menus across the table. She gives Bucky an arch look. “You always let Bird Brain talk for you?”

            “Always the bird jokes,” Sam groans, but he turns to see if Bucky will answer.

            Bucky tries a smile. “Sometimes I get tongue tied around pretty girls.”

            Haley nods approvingly. “Nice save. And that’s a nice piece of Stark tech.”

            He glances self-consciously down at his arm. Flexes his fingers and curls the metal against him protectively. His smile fades.

            “Uh, why don’t you get us those coffees, Haley?” says Sam.

            “Sorry, I meant nothing by it,” says Haley. She glances around and raises her skirt a few inches, revealing a metal ankle above neon orange sneakers. The logo of Tony’s company glimmers in the morning light. When she speaks, her voice is suddenly clipped. “Mortar attack. Afghanistan.”

            She turns away, and gets a few steps before Bucky says, “There was an explosion. My best friend thought I was dead.”

            Haley looks at him, and he finds the words come out easily. “Most of the time I can’t remember him or who I am anymore.”

            “Everyone has scars,” she says. “Yours are just more visible than other people’s.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now I would very much like a 'Captain America's Brothers' movie!AU...hmm...might have to write this fic.


	7. vii. FIGHT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I would have thought bar fights were beneath you,” says Steve, distant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does canon ever establish whether Bucky can get drunk whilst he is under the influence of the supersolider serum? If not...he metabolises it quickly. Or something.   
> Catch the 'Mean Girls' reference, if you can.   
> And also yay pub brawls?

 vii. FIGHT

            Bucky leaves the Tower alone, without an escort, for the first time on Saturday night. He leaves without anyone’s knowledge or permission (per say), driven by the wild rule of cabin fever. He feels strangely exhilarated to step outside unaccompanied, breathing fresh (maybe illicit) air. The excitement propels him down the road with very little thought to the way the crowds surround him.

            He finds a bar in a little side alley, a sad place that doesn’t even ask for IDs. Bucky does not realize that this is a sign of something troubling. The atmosphere is quiet, the patrons look young. He sits at the bar with a Jack and coke, settles in for a quiet night of alcoholic contemplation.

            The first hour passes uneventfully.

            So does the second.

            At midnight, on the bottom of his third drink, Bucky is beginning to think about returning to the Tower. He crunches ice between his teeth, surveying his few fellow drinkers without much interest.

            “You’re not being very fun, right now, babe.”

            “Leave me alone.”

            He catches the tail of the whispered conversation and turns his head honey-slow to the end of the bar counter. The girl is shrugging off the hands of a young man whose rounded head is simian in appearance.

            “I don’t want to talk, Alex,” she says, snappish.

            “Aw, come on, babe. You can’t stay mad at me forever.”

            “Sure I can,” she says and slips off the bar stool. She walks, cool and deliberate, to the empty seat near Bucky.

            He slides his eyes toward her. “I could take care of that for you.”

            “What?” she says, glancing over.

            “The monkeys masquerading as gentleman. Wouldn’t bother you anymore.”

            She gives him a thin, almost frightened smile. The edges are held together by bravado and lipstick. “It’s just my boyfriend, Alex. He gets…stupid when he drinks.”

            “I know stupid and that don’t look like it.” Bucky finishes his drink and motions for another with his right hand. He keeps his left hand fisted in the pocket of his hoodie. “What are you drinking?”

            “Oh.” She ducks her head behind a curtain of blonde hair. “Er. You know, I’m with him, really…I shouldn’t…”

            “It’s a drink, not an invitation to bed.”

            “Sure. Okay,” she says, smiling a little. “White Russian.”

            “Classy lady,” Bucky comments.

            She tilts her head to look at him. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

            “Because I think maybe Alex should find someone his own size to pick on. Make it a fair fight.”

            She looks away, eyes sad. The bartender slides her drink onto a cocktail napkin. She spears a maraschino cherry and chews slowly. Her lips stain a beautiful artificial red.

“What’s your name?”

            “J-James,” Bucky says, stuttering over the word.

            “I’m Mellie.” She extends her right hand, and Bucky reluctantly drags his left hand out. She glances down at the metal, surprise curling over her features, but grasps it firmly as she shakes. “Cool hand, dude.”

            “Thanks,” he says. He likes her even more now. He decides to keep the left hand out, fingers curling over the counter’s edge like the tail of a sleeping cat.

            “So what, you just wander into bars, looking for girls to rescue?”

            Bucky snorts. “Naw, I’m no white knight. That’s my buddy Steve’s job. He’s got the shield and everything.”

            “Steve, huh?” She sips at her tumbler. “What’s he like?”

            “Tall, blonde, all-American,” says Bucky, a little resentful. “If he was here, you wouldn’t waste two seconds talking to me.”

            A raucous yell of drunken laughter spills over from the next table. Mellie glances over, her face tight, and her shoulders drawn reflexively.

            “Why are you with him, anyway?” he says, before he can stop himself.

            “What’s it to you?” she snaps. “You don’t know anything about me.”

            “That’s true,” Bucky replies, shrugging a little. “Just thought I’d ask.”

            “You don’t ask personal questions like that. How would you like it if I asked about your arm?”

            “I’d say I lost it in the war,” Bucky says, staring her straight in the eyes. Unflinching. “Along with a whole lot of other things.”

            She flushes and looks away, embarrassed. “Sorry. I just. That was rude of me.”

            “It’s true; I don’t know you from Adam. But a lady like you deserves a guy who’s gonna treat her right.”

            “Not all loves are fairytale,” whispers Mellie. She pats him on the hand. “Thanks for the drink.”

            He nods, and watches her slip off toward Alex. He leaves his empty tumbler on the napkin and squeezes his way through the crowd, out into the cold New York night. Bucky flips the hood on over his head, hunches his shoulders and begins walking away from the bar. He makes it five steps in the opposite direction before a shout makes him turn his head.

            “Hey! Hey you!” It’s the hulking brute, Alex. He is trailed by his friends. Mellie is a few steps behind him, her face panicked. “Were you hitting on my girlfriend?”

            “You followed me outta the bar for that?” Bucky says.

            “You were buying her drinks, dude,” Alex says. He stops just outside of fist’s reach. Up close, Bucky can smell the yeasty undertones of inordinate beer consumption. The gorilla comparison has never been more apt.

            “It’s a free country, _pal_ ,” Bucky shoots back. His pulse speeds up. He can feel the strange undercurrent of tension that comes from being outnumbered and outgunned. Alex’s friends circle around their leader, loosely. Spoiling for a fight.

            “He wasn’t flirting with me,” Mellie insists, pulling at Alex’s sleeve. “Come on, you don’t want to mess with him.”

            “What, you don’t want me to bloody up his pretty face?” Alex says, shaking her off. “You gonna go screw him later?”

            She pushes him away. “The way you’ve been acting lately, maybe I will.”

            Alex backhands her across the face. She drops to her knees with a gasp, pressing a hand to her bloody mouth. “You fucking bitch.”

            “I’ve done a lot of bad things in my life,” says Bucky slowly. The rage swells as he looks at Mellie’s prone figure. He forces it to cool to a tempered, controlled action. “But I ain’t never disrespected a lady like that.”

He rolls his shoulders up and down. Unzips his hoodie slowly and tosses it to the ground. His arm glints strangely in the light from the streetlamps.

            Alex laughs. “Look at this freak’s robot arm.”

            Despite himself, Bucky feels a little stung on behalf of his prosthesis. It’s only okay when Tony says it.

            “Any of you boys been in real fight before? Know how to keep yourself alive? I have. And if I’m still standing here….” Bucky grins feral. “You can guess what happened to the other guys.”

            Both of the friends shift, exchanging nervous glances. The empowerment of beer hasn’t loosened them up quite enough to dare death.

            “You’re talking shit,” says Alex, and lunges for Bucky with a closed right fist.

            Bucky dodges the punch easily. Swings his own cross to Alex’s soft midsection, and follows it up with an elbow to the nose. Alex bellows, enraged, and throws an uppercut and subsequent wild left swing. The hook connects with Bucky’s chin, and his teeth click together on the soft flesh of his tongue. He spits blood.

            Inspired by this show of humanity, the friends move in for the kill behind Alex, driven on by bloodlust. Bucky eyes each target separately. Alex has rage, but no proper training to back him up. His shorter friend is hanging back, slightly, probably not much of a concern. The lean friend has the rangy build of a fighter.

            They all come at once. A lesser man would perhaps be overwhelmed. The story would end with the victim beaten severely into a pulp in a New York City alleyway by a gang of drunk students. They would tend their wounds back at their apartments and talk about what strong men they were. Perhaps assault charges would be pressed. Perhaps not.

            But this is three drunk boys against the Winter Solider and there is no competition.

            The fight ends swiftly, with Alex and his friends on the ground in front of Bucky. All are groaning, so he assumes that they still possess some measure of consciousness. He backs away from the motionless bodies, coolly assessing the damage. It is then, when he is looking at what he has wrought, that he hears sirens. Dimly he registers this as bad.

             “Oh my god, oh my god,” Mellie says, faint.

             He turns to see her standing behind him, pressed up against the brick wall. He has nearly forgotten about her.

             “Are they dead?”

             He cannot tell if she is angry or not with him. He did this _for her_. (Didn’t he?)

             “Probably not,” he says.

             “Thank you, thank you,” she murmurs, her fingers fluttering nervously in front of her face. There is dried blood smeared across her chin.

             “You okay?”

             “God, what a question. Sure…I guess.” Her eyes fill with tears. “Thanks for saving me. Tell your friend Steve to shove it. You’re my knight in shining armour now.”

            She flings her arms around his shoulders and this is how the police officers discover them minutes later: hugging bloodily with bodies surrounding them.

 

 

            “Self-defense?” The detective eyes him sceptically from across the table. “I’ve got three guys in hospital, and you’re telling me it was self-defense?”

            “Three against one ain’t fair odds, officer,” says Bucky, pressing an icepack to his lip.

             The adrenaline has worn off now, the cool competence has disappeared. It takes all his energy to put on a normal face for the police, to try and charm his way out of this. He is waiting for his phone call, to receive orders to tell him what to do. But the detective had not been impressed by his lack of identification, and was treating him quite hostilely.

            It was the right thing to do. (Wasn’t it?)

            “No, it isn’t.” The detective squints. “So how come they got the worst of it?”

            “None of them knew who they were picking a fight with.”

            “And that would be…?”

            Bucky grins, despite himself. “Well, you’re looking at him.”

            “This is not a joke,” says the detective gravely. “You could be looking at some serious time for assault.”

            Bucky drops the smile. “Like I told you before—the guy knocked his girl out cold. He went after me, I defended myself.”

            “And you stated that alcohol was a mitigating factor?”

            Bucky raises an eyebrow.

            “You had all been drinking,” the detective clarifies.

            “I had a few drinks, but I was sober.”

            “Uh-huh.”

            The door opens and a sharply dressed female cop steps in. She slides a sheet of paper over to the detective, who skims the contents and whistles sharply. The female cop sits in the chair, her cool green eyes staring Bucky down.

            “You seem to be having all kinds of problems tonight,” says the detective. “First, you don’t have any ID. _Then_ there’s not even any record of you.”

            The female cop taps the paper. “We just ran your prints and they match a dozen unsolved homicide cases in the US and abroad. Care to tell us who you _really_ are?”

            Panic wells up in his chest. He presses his lips together tightly. “Would you believe me if I said I didn’t know?”

           “I recommend you start cooperating with us, or it is going to be a _very_ long night.”

           Bucky starts to shake a little. His heart races. He inhales sharply.

           A knock on the two-sided glass makes both cops turn. The door opens. A bald-headed man in a suit steps in, followed by _Steve_ , of all people.

           “This is Steve Rogers. Captain America,” the older man introduces, quite unnecessarily as both cops are staring open-mouthed at the doorway.

           “It’s an honor, sir,” says the male detective breathlessly.

           Steve gives a stiff nod in the man’s direction, which for Steve is practically ignoring him. Bucky gets the full weight of Steve’s attention. He thinks that Steve looks tired.

          “We’re going to drop the assault charges,” says the older man.

          “But Captain—” says the female detective immediately.

          “And you’re going to forget about those homicide cases,” the police captain adds.

          “For what reason?” the male cop says, belligerent.

           “National security,” says Steve. He beckons Bucky over. “Come on. Happy’s got the car outside. We’re gonna take you home.”

           Bucky stands, albeit shakily. Steve wraps a protective arm around his shoulders as they walk out. Neither one of them say anything until they are in the backseat of the car.

           “Are you okay?” says Steve, his voice clipped.

            Bucky scrubs at his face. “Shit, Steve. I don’t know what to say. How’d you find me?”

            “Tony keeps electronic flags on all of our names,” says Steve, distant. “I would have thought bar fights were beneath you.”

           “He hit a woman. What was I supposed to do, walk away?” Bucky snaps. “I coulda killed all of them. But I didn’t.”

           “No, you didn’t.” Steve sighs. “I didn’t know you were protecting someone.”

           “What, you thought I snapped?”

            Steve looks away, and this is an answer all in itself.

           “You did,” Bucky says, soft. He feels gutted.

           “Most of the time, you seem like you’re doing better,” says Steve. He still doesn’t meet Bucky’s eyes. “But…things can trigger you. I was worried that the stability might not be permanent.”

            And what would you do, if the Winter Solider resurfaced, Steve? Would you put him down like the dog he is? Or would you let him run, again, even though he obliterated your old friend?

            “What’d you say to make those charges go away?” Bucky demands. He leans into Steve’s personal space. “You lie to those cops, Steve? Tell them I’m not dangerous?”

            “I said it was confidential. A matter of national security,” says Steve waspishly. “I used the shield to get you out of trouble.”

_Even when I thought you were crazy again_ , goes unspoken.

            “They had my prints,” says Bucky. “Linking me to dozens of murders.”

            “I’ll tell Tony to clear your records,” says Steve. “Natasha can get you some new IDs—birth certificate, social security card, driver’s license.”

            “You’re going to erase evidence?” Bucky says flatly.

            “That evidence will put you in jail, Bucky,” Steve snaps. “They still execute people in this country.”

             “Maybe firing squad’s the best thing for me.”

            “Damnit, Bucky!” Steve’s voice rises in a shout. “If you want to go to prison and die, we can turn right around and you can martyr yourself right onto the gallows.”

            “I don’t want to die,” Bucky says, painfully. “But I think I deserve to. And if you get rid of that evidence, you’d erasing those people’s chances at justice, Steve!”

            “Where is _your_ justice, Bucky?” Steve demands. “Your life and your memories were stolen. Your _free will_ , your _freedom to think_ was ripped away. The very lowest thing they could do to a human being, they did to you. No one is gonna pay for that, now. The very least you could do is live the rest of your life the way you want to live it.”

            Bucky’s shoulders convulse. With a vague horror, he realizes that tears are coming down his face.

            “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

            He is not sure who he is apologizing to. Or what he is apologizing for—the assassinations or the near surrender. He knows only that Steve has no shame in wrapping his arms around him in a firm embrace, and that the world comes to a grinding halt when he cries on Steve’s shoulder. The guilt recedes to a dim corner of his mind, until it will metastasize back into his waking hours. A patchwork conscience that waves red can never be deleted as neat as a computer file. There will always be some remnant, waiting to ambush, like a particularly malevolent brain tumour.

 

 


	8. viii. COUNTERWEIGHT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “All right, it hurt,” Steve snaps back. “The man I knew was lost worse than dead, and I wasn’t going make you love me in his place. Because you were only gonna be an imitation at best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is coming to a close and there shall probably be only one more chapter, two at the most (as maybe an epilogue of sorts). Apologies for the delay in updating!

viii. COUNTERWEIGHT

 

            It is three in the morning when Happy drops them off at the tower. The lift ride to the penultimate floor is dead silent. When the doors open, Natasha is perched cross-legged on the top edge of the sofa. Somehow, she looks entirely comfortable.

            “Did you post bail?” she says to Steve.

            “He Captain America’d them,” Bucky says. He throws himself on the cushions below Natasha’s feet.

            Natasha tilts her head, inquiringly.

            “I’m pretty good at prison breaks,” says Steve. He tries for a smile, but it ends mostly as a miserable grimace.

            “What do you plan to do about the records?”

            “Expunge them,” says Steve, a little crisp.

            “I was asking Bucky,” says Natasha.

            Bucky glances at her. “What he said.”

            “Some things should never see the light of day,” opines Steve. His hands are on his hips, the angle of his chin noble and brave. Ready to take on the world.

            “You look tired, Steve,” says Natasha.

            “I do?” Steve replies, baffled.

            “Yes,” she says, pointed.

            Steve gets the hint. The righteous defender of America softens into a sad old man. He leaves.

             “This is your decision,” says Natasha.

             Bucky listens to the door close in the distance before he replies. “Do you think Steve is wrong?”

             “Morally, ethically or legally?”

             Bucky frowns. “I thought I was asking an intel operative, not a lawyer.”

             “An ex-assassin, and superhero,” says Natasha.

            The way she lays this out for him makes Bucky smile a little. “So you’ve got some contradictions, too.”

             “I chose to let an organization decide my morals for me,” says Natasha. “This would have been SHIELD’s purview, but SHIELD is gone. Anyone who might have held authority is dead or fighting from the shadows.”

             “Are you telling me you wouldn’t have known what to think unless Nick Fury told you?”

             “I’m saying that my relationship with ethics has been ambiguous at best,” says Natasha. “I just don’t think you should allow Steve to make this decision for you.”

              “He’s the best option for a moral compass that I have,” says Bucky.

              “Let’s consider this in a way that makes sense to both of us. Tactically speaking, you have a very large advantage right now,” says Natasha. “As far as HYDRA is concerned, you’re dead. If you expunge your records, you stay like that.”

             “There is always a possibility that they could figure out my location from the trace.”

             “If you resurface again, they will consider you an asset to be collected or a threat to be neutralized.”

              “You think they might try to take me back? Recondition the programming?”

             Natasha shrugs. “There are many options, none of them good. They might consider bringing you back to be too much trouble. A malfunctioning weapon is also useless.”

             “And bullets are cheaper,” says Bucky.

             “Yes,” says Natasha, narrowing her eyes. “Does that scare you?”

              He pictures himself sitting outside in a café, feeling a rare moment of security. Then, a .308 impacting the side of his head, blowing out his skull. Splattering brain matter and blood over the table. Ending his life like all his victims, truly having come full circle. A month ago, hell even a few hours ago, he would have considered the execution a fitting end.

              But he doesn’t want to die. And he doesn’t want to live in fear, either.

             He doesn’t feel like he’s lying for a second when he meets Natasha’s eyes and says, “I’m not afraid of HYDRA.”

             “They should be afraid of you,” agrees Natasha. She taps her chin, thoughtfully. “I have red in my ledger. I am not a good person. But I hold myself accountable for what I’ve done. In time, I may make peace with it.”

             “You live looking forward.”

            “I hope that if I do enough good, maybe that will balance out my sins,” she says. “The choices I make tomorrow will be better than those of yesterday.”

            “How long have you been waiting for the scale to tip?”

            “Long enough,” Natasha replies. She gives him a slight half-smile. “We make ourselves into who we want to be. So ask yourself: who is James Barnes?”

 

 

             James Barnes is dead. The man from Brooklyn who loved to laugh, who was charming with women, who protected Steve, is gone. The only one who mourns is Steve, but the mourning is a second time over, and bittersweet. A new man has come to replace him.

             Bucky flips through a bundle of plastic and paper, each card representing a piece of his new identity. Jim Buchanan steps into his shoes and takes his place. Jim has had a whole separate life. He notes the name on the military ID, social security card, driver’s licence. He blinks when he sees the date of birth—1989.

            “These are forgeries,” observes Bucky.

            Pepper Potts, Tony’s girl, has organised the documents. He had assumed that she would go through legal channels, but she clearly knows the path of least resistance. She eyes him speculatively. Her spotless grey twill suit uncomfortably reminds him that he is completely at her mercy.

            “Everything is very well done, mind you,” says Pepper, coolly. “Is that going to be a problem?”

            “No,” says Bucky, and swallows the urge to add _ma’am_. There is something about Pepper that makes him want to stand straight and salute.

            He fingers the cash card and slips it into the pocket of his jeans. “Do I even have money?” Bucky asks, and then feels stupid for never wondering before.

            “Someone made a large private donation,” says Pepper, her lips twitching. She hands him a copy of a cheque.

            Sure enough, Tony’s ostentatious scrawl is on the bottom. And on the ‘for’ line…

            “ _Sad gay hobo_?” Bucky yelps. He glances at the balance and nearly shouts again. “Fifty thousand dollars?”

            “Pocket change for Tony,” Pepper assures him. “He gives gifts instead of having actual human conversations.”

            “That’s one way to make friends,” Bucky says, whistling.

            “Tony is a good man to have on your side,” says Pepper. “As, I suspect, are you.”

            “Awfully nice of you to say, ma’am,” Bucky replies. He gives her his best roguish wink.

            Pepper responds with a sliver of a smile. “Have a good day, Mr. Buchanan.”

 

           

            “Where do you go, when you’re not here?” Bucky says to Steve.

            He is sitting cross-legged on top of Steve’s back. Steve grunts with effort as he pushes up.

            “Missions mostly,” Steve pants. “How many is that?”

            “Three hundred twenty-six?” Bucky says. The numbers slip from his grasp. “Shit. I’ve lost count.”

            “Let’s call it a day, then.” Steve lies down, breathing heavily. His shirt is covered in sweat.

            “What kind of missions?”

            “Just protecting. Defending. Doing recon,” says Steve evasively. He chuckles a little. “Bringing the shield of justice the American way—that’s what Tony says.”

            Stark again. Bucky frowns. “You work with Tony a lot?”

            “He’s on the team, and he takes care of all the tech. And the finance.” Steve shifts. “Hey Buck?”

            “Yeah?”

            “You can get off me now.”

            “Oh. Sorry.”

            Bucky stands up. Steve rolls to a sitting position. He holds out his right hand. “Help me up?”

            Bucky pulls him to his feet. The metal joints flex.

            “Only three hundred pushups and you’re wiped out? You’re losing your touch, Rogers.”

            “Maybe if someone hadn’t lost track halfway through,” Steve says, joking. “It felt more like five hundred to me.”

            “A little PT never hurt.”

            Steve stretches, rolling up on his toes. He ambles over to the pull-up bar, and begins doing rapid chin ups.

            “If anyone had told me that I could do these without breaking a sweat, I woulda laughed them outta Brooklyn.” He pauses mid-air to switch his grip and resumes his manic rhythm.

            “A lot of unbelievable things have happened.”

            Steve laughs. “Boy, that’s true. I guess my chin ups don’t really compare.”

_Lick every bead of sweat from Steve’s face…._

_…nothing but tongue, wet and sweet_

_gasp into his mouth,_ not here... _  
_

The intensity of his own feeling blindsides him. Roots him to the spot. Robs him of what breath he has left. He shudders. He knows what Steve’s skin would taste like. Intimately. Visceral. A memory.

            His reaction must show on his face because Steve stops. He leaps back to the floor, landing lightly on his feet.           

            “Everything alright? You look like you went somewhere for a moment.”

            Bucky forces his face to remain neutral. He has tried hard to be open with Steve, but deceiving him is easier than he thought. He changes tack the best way he knows how—by drawing on the well of Steve’s concern.

             “I’m all right. Just thinking of everything that’s happened.”

              Like handsome, predictable clockwork, Steve’s face softens. “That gets me down too. Everything we lost.”

            They stand in a respectful twenty second silence. Bucky looks over at Steve’s bowed head and wonders for the first time, what _exactly_ they have lost.

 

 

            Bucky watches Steve closely after that. At first, he feels a little delightedly like a detective in a noir film, watching body language, listening for clues. Observing the enigma that is Steve Rogers. Like an actor in a stage play, Steve is committed to his role. He stands an appropriate distance away. Never even hints at anything other than a cautious steady friendship.

           Bucky even takes out the hated photographs again and looks to see if there is anything to the way his arm is slung around Steve’s shoulders. In the films, Steve’s face crinkles with genuine glee and he wonders what he is saying to make Steve laugh like that.

           Maybe the feeling is just a feeling and only that, like some love sick girl dreaming up fantasies. His head isn’t on straight, anyway. It wouldn’t be right for guys to feel like that. He’s seeing something that isn’t there. Creating false memories to make up for the gap. He refuses to believe that it could be a real memory, that something might remain after all.

            He can’t look at Steve anymore without wanting to kiss him.

 

 

            “You’ve been quiet lately,” observes Sam.

            They are back at the diner, for breakfast this time. Sam munches on a rasher of bacon. Natasha is curled in the corner of the booth, eating eggs with very precise movements of her knife and fork. Tony had ostensibly accompanied them but he is outside on his mobile phone, brokering some billion dollar deal. Or apologising to his girlfriend. One of the two. Tony is a man of extremes.

            “He’s thinking of Steve,” says Natasha before Bucky can reply.

            “No, I’m not,” he replies.

            Natasha merely raises an eyebrow in response, like she knows this is bullshit.

            “I was thinking about…something else,” Bucky finishes lamely, drizzling a dark line of maple syrup on his plate.

            Natasha’s eyebrow rises to unforeseen heights. Bucky gives her a dark glare and looks as mutinous as a man can look with a mouthful of pancake.

            Sam glances between them. “What am I missing here?”

            “I thought I remembered something, but I didn’t,” says Bucky firmly. He points his fork at Natasha. “Stay out of my mind.”

            “Stop thinking so loudly.”

            “Still in the dark here,” Sam says, sing-song.

            “The thing,” says Natasha cryptically.

            Sam’s face smooths over. “Oh. _That_ thing.”

            He very carefully does not look at Natasha and that is all Bucky needs to figure out that someone squealed.

            “You told him,” Bucky says, words sounding less like an accusation than a death threat.

            “I guessed,” Sam interjects, vaguely apologetic.

            “I’m not sure if it’s a memory,” admits Bucky.

            “Have you remembered something false before?” asks Natasha.

            “You read my file. They tried implanting events,” says Bucky. “At this point, I just assume anything I get back is real.”

            “You should ask Steve,” Sam advises.

            “I can’t ask him,” Bucky says, laughing a little bitterly. “Don’t you think he woulda said something by now?”

            “Maybe he couldn’t,” says Sam.

            “Don’t make excuses for him,” snaps Bucky. “Either he’s lying or my mind is making this up. And I can’t tell which one is worse.”

           

 

            He keeps his distance from Steve after that. He sulks with rancor, broods with panache. This is a difficult feat to achieve considering their bedrooms are adjoined and there is only one bathroom, but Bucky perseveres. He keeps to his bedroom and locks the door. Only leaves to scrounge the refrigerator long after Steve has left or gone to bed. If he does see Steve, he keeps his face blank and his answers monosyllabic, distancing any previous intimacy with silence.

            It doesn’t take long for this behavior to induce a faintly worried expression to permanently settle on Steve’s furrowed brow.

            “Are you feeling all right?” Steve opens with one night, a week and half into the fit of bad temper.

            Bucky gives a vague sort of grunt without looking up from his book. He is reading a brief history of the modern era, which is two hundred pages too long to be considered short.

            “How’s the book?” Steve tries a different track. “You never used to be an egghead.”

            Bucky turns a page, deliberately. “I’ve changed.”

            “Are you gonna tell me what’s wrong, or am I gonna have to play Twenty Questions with you all night?”

             “I dunno. Are you gonna lie to me some more, or are you gonna tell me the truth this time?”

            “Lie to you?” says Steve, sounding genuinely confused.

            Bucky puts all pretense of reading aside and tosses the book on the table. “You said we were friends.”

            “That’s how it was. We were like brothers.”

            “Don’t give me the party line, Rogers,” Bucky says roughly. “I remember it differently.”

            Steve swallows. “Something came back?”

            “Yeah. And I’ve got images of us doing things I know brothers don’t do. So either I’m crazier than I thought or you lied to me.”

“We had an understanding, of sorts,” says Steve, quiet. “But you didn’t remember me, and you didn’t remember you, and it didn’t seem fair to put that on you.”

            “You lied, Steve, don’t try to sound noble.”

            “All right, it hurt,” Steve snaps back. “The man I knew was lost worse than dead, and I wasn’t going make you love me in his place. Because you were only gonna be an imitation at best.”

            “Is that what I am? Only an imitation?” Bucky breathes. “Is that why you keep me around?”

            “I didn’t mean it like that.”

            “Then why say it, if the thought weren’t floating around to begin with?”

            “This is why I didn’t want to tell you,” says Steve, exasperated. “I didn’t want to upset you.”

            “Lies tend to do that.”

            “You weren’t ready to hear the truth, Bucky. When I saw you in Zurich, you had damn lost your mind.”

            “So you get to decide which version I hear? I don’t know anything but what you’ve told me. Do you know how vulnerable that makes me? I trusted you to tell me the truth and it turns out you couldn’t even do that.”

            “I was protecting you!”

            “You were protecting yourself,” Bucky says, scornful. “I’m not the man you wanted anymore, so it was convenient to omit everything.”

            “I was waiting for the right moment,” says Steve lowly, his voice tight and calm. Talking him down, like Bucky is the one who is being unreasonable. “I didn’t even know if you wanted me anymore.”

            “I don’t want you,” says Bucky, defiant.

            He’s a little proud of the way Steve goes pale.

            “Oh,” says Steve.

            He swallows.

             He is silent.

            Bucky looks away.

            “I’m…sorry,” says Steve.

            He stands up.

            He leaves.

 


End file.
